Myron sat back. “Do you know how great you are?”

“I don’t care. Tell me how beautiful I am again. I’m a sucker for that.”

7

Three Downing was closing up for the night. Win watched the patrons stumble outside, blinking in the unnatural light of Manhattan at four A.M. He waited. After a few minutes he spotted the large man who had used the stun gun on Myron. The large man—Kyle—was tossing someone out as though he were a bag of laundry. Win stayed calm. He thought back to a time not that long ago when Myron had vanished for weeks, was tortured probably, a time when he, Win, couldn’t help his best friend or even avenge him after the fact. Win remembered the horrible feeling of powerlessness. He hadn’t felt that way since his youth in the wealthy suburbs on Philadelphia’s Main Line, since those who hated him on sight tormented and beat him. Win had sworn back then that he would never feel that way again. Then he did something about it. Now, as an adult, the same rule held.

If you are hurt, you strike back. Massive retaliation. But with a purpose. Myron didn’t always agree with this doctrine. That was okay. They were friends, best friends. They would kill for each other. But they weren’t the same person.

“Hello, Kyle,” Win called out.

Kyle looked up and scowled.

“Do you have a moment for a private conversation?” Win asked.

“You kidding me?”

“Normally, I’m a great kidder, a regular Dom DeLuise, but no, Kyle, tonight I kid you not. I want us to chat in private.”

Kyle actually licked his lips. “No cell phones this time?”

“None. No stun guns either.”

Kyle looked around, making sure that the proverbial coast was clear. “And that cop is gone?”

“Long gone.”

“So it’s just you and me?”

“Just you and me,” Win repeated. “In fact, my nipples are getting hard at the thought.”

Kyle moved closer. “I don’t care who you know, pretty boy,” Kyle said. “I’ll bust your ass up but good.”

Win smiled and gestured for him to lead the way. “Oh, I can’t wait.”

Sleep used to be an escape for Myron.

No more. He would lie in bed for hours, stare at the ceiling, afraid to close his eyes. It brought him back often to a place he was supposed to forget. He knew that he should deal with this—visit a shrink or something—but he also knew that he probably wouldn’t. Trite to say, but Terese was something of a cure. When he slept with her, the night terrors kept their distance.

His first thought when the alarm clock jarred him back to the present was the same as when he’d tried to close his eyes: Brad. It was odd. Days, sometimes weeks, maybe even months passed without thinking about his brother. Their estrangement worked a bit like grief. We are often told during times of bereavement that time heals all wounds. That’s crap. In truth, you are devastated, you mourn, you cry to the point where you think you’ll never stop—and then you reach a stage where the survival instinct takes over. You stop. You simply won’t or can’t let yourself “go there” anymore because the pain was too great. You block. You deny. But you don’t really heal.

Seeing Kitty last night had knocked away the denial and sent Myron reeling. So now what? Simple: Talk to the two people who could tell him something about Kitty and Brad. He reached for his phone and called his house in Livingston, New Jersey. His parents were visiting from Boca Raton for the week.

His mom answered. “Hello?”

“Hey, Mom,” Myron said, “how are you?”

“I’m great, honey. How are you?”

Her voice was almost too tender, as if the wrong answer could shatter her heart.

“I’m great too.” He’d thought about asking her about Brad, but no, this would take some tact. “I thought maybe I’d take you and Dad out to dinner tonight.”

“Not Nero’s,” she said. “I don’t want to go to Nero’s.”

“That’s fine.”

“I’m not in the mood for Italian. Nero’s is Italian.”

“Right. No Nero’s.”

“You ever have that?”

“Have what?”

“Where you’re just not in the mood for a kind of food? Take me right now, for example. I simply don’t want Italian.”

“Yep, I got that. So what kind of food would you like?”

“Can we do Chinese? I don’t like the Chinese in Florida. It’s too greasy.”

“Sure. How about Baumgart’s?”

“Oh, I love their kung pao chicken. But, Myron, what kind of name is Baumgart’s for a Chinese restaurant? It sounds like a Jewish deli.”

“It used to be,” Myron said.

“Really?”

He had explained the origin of the name to her at least ten times. “I really have to hurry here, Mom. I’ll be by the house at six. Tell Dad.”

“Okay. Take care of yourself, honey.”

Again with the tender. He told her to do the same. After he hung up, he decided to text his father to confirm tonight. He felt bad about that, as if he were somehow betraying his mother, but her memory . . . well, enough with the denial, right?

Myron quickly showered and got dressed. Since returning from Angola, Myron had, at Esperanza’s rather strong suggestion, made walking to work a morning ritual. He entered Central Park at West Seventy-second and took it south. Esperanza loved to walk, but Myron had never really gotten it. His temperament was not suited for head clearing or settling his nerves or solace or whatever putting one foot in front of the other was supposed to accomplish. But Esperanza had convinced him that it would be good for his head, making him promise to give it three weeks. Alas, Esperanza was wrong, though maybe he hadn’t given it a fair shake. Myron spent most of the time with the Bluetooth in his ear, chatting up clients, gesturing wildly like, well, like most of the other park dwellers. Still it felt better, more “him,” to be multitasking. So with that in mind, he jammed the Bluetooth into his ear and called Suzze T. She picked up on the first ring.

“Did you find him?” Suzze asked.

“We did. Then we lost him. Have you heard of a nightclub called Three Downing?”

“Of course.”

Of course. “Well, Lex was there last night.” Myron explained about finding him in the VIP room. “He started talking about festering secrets and not being open.”

“Did you tell him the post wasn’t true?”